MS Island Lord Mayor?
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: Roarke finds he has opposition in a special election. Follows 'Finding Fernando'.
1. Chapter 1

§ § § -- July 21, 1992

It was a sultry summer Tuesday night and Camille Omamara lay wide awake beside her slumbering husband, ruminating, as she'd been doing for some time now. _If I'm going to do it, _she thought,_ it's gonna have to be soon. The deadline's almost here and there's a lot of paperwork involved. And for crying out loud, I gotta find _some_ way to distinguish myself. Look at my brothers and sisters. Andrea went to Harvard; Tommy's the CEO of his own nice little company on Oahu, making money hand over fist; and the quads…well, they're the quads, and that's all it takes to distinguish them. But me—I'm lost in the shuffle! So if I'm going to do something, then I might as well do it big._

"Okay," she muttered aloud, making her decision then and there. "I'm gonna do it."

Her announcement roused Jimmy just enough that he rolled over and half lifted his head off the pillow. "Huh?"

"I've decided I'm going to throw my hat in the ring," Camille told him, excitement lacing her voice. "Yeah, I'm going for it! Fantasy Island'll never know what hit it."

"I don't know what's hitting me right now," Jimmy grumbled sleepily. "What're you talking about?"

"I'm gonna enter the race for island lord mayor," Camille said proudly. "And I want you and all the girls to help me."

Jimmy squinted at her in disbelief. "You've gone off the deep end. And did you say _all_ the girls? Meaning Leslie, too?"

"Well, why not Leslie? I mean, heck, Mr. Roarke always wins; and in light of that, he doesn't need anybody to campaign for him, so she can campaign for me," Camille reasoned.

Jimmy snorted a laugh. "There's some sound reasoning," he remarked ironically. "If Mr. Roarke always wins, what're you even running against him for in the first place?"

"Oh, thanks loads for your undying faith," she retorted. "He's just never really had any competition. If I can get a good campaign platform going and really get out there and make myself seen and heard by everyone on the island, I should have a decent shot at winning. I could run on some of the campaign slogans they use in the U.S. Something like, _Elect Camille Omamara for a change in island government. _Like a breath of fresh air."

Jimmy snorted again and punched his pillow a couple of times. "Geez, Camille, what's behind this sudden rush of political ambition? How come, out of the blue, you want to take over Mr. Roarke's position? You have no political experience of any kind and you probably have no clue just what the job's all about, and here you are leaping off a cliff and deciding to shoot for the moon. What's this all about? Are you looking for some way to feel powerful and in control, now that David's at the stage where he says 'no' every time you tell him to do something?"

Camille whacked him on the shoulder, making him grunt. "Cripes, if that's your attitude, I don't need you in my campaign. You might as well be stumping for Mr. Roarke. The fact is, I feel like I need to do something worthwhile. I don't want to be just 'David's mom' and 'Jimmy's wife'. I want to be someone important—and Camille Omamara, Ms. Island Lord Mayor, would be someone important all right."

"Well, you're in the right place, I guess," Jimmy commented, punching his pillow again and rolling over.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Camille demanded suspiciously.

"You're on Fantasy Island, and you winning the race for island lord mayor is one of the biggest fantasies I've ever heard." Jimmy thumped his head back onto the pillow and made himself comfortable. "Get some sleep, huh? Tomorrow we gotta start the grind all over again, and I've got head-chef candidates to interview."

"You should take that comedy act onstage," Camille remarked sarcastically, but she lay down and closed her eyes anyway, eventually drifting off to daydreams of winning the election and finally achieving something grand in her family full of achievers.

‡ ‡ ‡

Usually elections were held on Fantasy Island every five years; but occasionally there was reason for a special election, as there was in this case. Because Sheriff Tokita was retiring, an election was necessary to determine his replacement, and half a dozen hopefuls had already submitted the paperwork to run for the position. For some reason, in these elections Roarke's position as island lord mayor—which was really only an honorary title, but one that still carried considerable authority—always came up for grabs as well, along with the ten positions on the island council. At the moment the sheriff position had garnered far and away the most interest out of everything that was on the ballot; though all ten council seats could be contested, so far only five candidates other than the currently-sitting council members had filed paperwork to run for them. As for the island-lord-mayor seat, this was traditionally uncontested, and as a result Roarke always won by default.

Since Leslie had come to live on the island, there had been four elections, and in all that time Roarke had been challenged only once—in a special election to fill the seat of a council member who had died unexpectedly in 1979, when Tattoo had opposed him with resounding lack of success. Though Leslie had never forgotten that, she had since grown used to Roarke's lack of competition; so she was thoroughly surprised when in early August, she began to see posters around the island, generally in the unlikeliest, most out-of-the-way spots. At first she paid little attention to them; but when she found one nailed onto the railing of the authentic, elegant red bridge that arched steeply over the swan pond near the Japanese garden and teahouse, she hastily removed it lest Roarke happen across it at some point. She took this home with her and paused on the veranda so that she could prop it up on the railing and get a good look at it. It was ordinary yellow posterboard, hand-lettered in what looked like a combination of crayons, Magic Markers and colored pencils, and urged her to vote for Camille Omamara for island lord mayor.

A station wagon pulled up in the lane next to the jeep she had parked near the fountain, and Roarke alighted and climbed the steps to the veranda, peering curiously at her. "What have you got there?" he asked.

"Oh," she said. "Just a poster."

Roarke scanned it over her shoulder and chuckled. "I've been seeing them around the island myself lately," he said. "Is that the one that was attached to the Japanese bridge?"

Leslie winced. "Oh rats, you did see it there. I thought I'd better take it down—it really shouldn't have been in that particular spot."

"I would have done so myself, but you acted faster than I did," Roarke said. "So…it would appear I have some competition."

Leslie shook her head in perplexity. "Why on earth does Camille want to run against you?" she wondered. "She must have completely forgotten Tattoo's experience, and I clearly remember telling her and the other girls about it at school."

"Apparently she has," Roarke said. All it took was one shared look, and they both began to grin with the memory.

±±±±±±±±±

Roarke and fourteen-year-old Leslie had just stepped off the porch on the morning of September 7, 1979; and Roarke was checking his watch, about to ask Leslie if she knew where Tattoo had gotten to, when they both heard the sound of a banjo start up some yards down the lane. They turned in amazement to see Don Davis, Amberville's town eccentric who often hired himself out as a one-man band, decked out in said band getup now, energetically playing a tune he had performed at the Amateur Night Talent Contest that had been held the same weekend Cornelius Kelly and his pal Alphonse had kidnapped Tattoo. In front of him was Tattoo himself, directing him, wearing sandwich boards that neither Roarke nor Leslie could read from this distance. Tattoo was handing out flyers to some of the native girls whom he had stopped in their headlong rush to the plane dock while Don marched in place, played his banjo, blew his kazoo and kept time to his own beat. The overall noise level made Leslie cover her ears; Roarke put a hand to his forehead and winced, as if a headache were emerging there.

Tattoo began to walk backwards in their direction, still playing conductor to Don's all-in-one band. When he reached the walk, Roarke drew in a deep breath, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, _"Tattoo!"_

Thankfully, Don stopped playing and Tattoo turned to them as Leslie lowered her hands from her ears. "Hi, boss…Leslie! What do you think?" Leslie didn't answer; she was scanning one of Tattoo's sandwich boards, which could now be seen to read _VOTE FOR TATTOO: HONORARY LORD MAYOR OF FANTASY ISLAND._

Roarke was exasperated. "I think that it is exceedingly noisy around here, _that's_ what I think," he retorted. Don looked a little crestfallen at Roarke's assessment. "Just what, may I ask, is going on?"

"I'm running for island lord mayor's office," Tattoo announced, turning to Leslie and thrusting a flyer into her hands. "Here."

Leslie looked it over; Roarke studied it over her shoulder. It wasn't much, just a mock ballot that urged, "Elect TATTOO Honorary Lord Mayor of Fantasy Island." At the bottom of the sheet were the names "Mr. Tattoo" and "Mr. Roarke" in that order; beside Tattoo's name was a box with an X inside, and beside Roarke's was a blank box. Leslie slid a cautious sidewise glance at her guardian, trying to gauge his reaction.

Roarke, for his part, focused on his assistant. "Tattoo…not that it really matters…" He chuckled a little, but even Leslie could see his amusement was forced. "…but it so happens that I have held the title of honorary lord mayor since the office was first established."

"I know, boss," Tattoo answered patiently. "But you remember how many times you've said that you are tired of honorary offices—and now you wish somebody to run against you? Huh?"

Leslie put in, "You said it just last week, Mr. Roarke, I heard you."

Roarke's chilly smile faded. "Oh," he said, glancing between Leslie and Tattoo and considering their words. "Yes, I did say that, didn't I?" They nodded, and he straightened to his full height. "Well, if you are determined to run…_against_ me…" The italicized word was accompanied by another frosty half-smile, which didn't reach his eyes. "I am, uh…delighted… of course." Fortunately for Leslie, he missed her skeptical smirk.

Tattoo brightened. "Oh, boss, I knew you'd see it that way," he said cheerfully, and then his own round face got a sly look about it. "May the best man win."

Roarke's slight nod bordered on a glare, steadily decreasing in temperature. "Shall we greet our guests?" he suggested pointedly and promptly started off to the car that was just pulling up in front of them. Leslie grinned at Tattoo, handed back the mock ballot and got into the middle seat, sliding across to make room for him. Roarke took his usual seat up front; Tattoo shrugged off his sandwich boards and tossed them onto the sidewalk before thumping into his own seat and dropping his flyers on the floorboards. Then he looked up at Don and signaled at him to start playing again, snaring the driver's astonished attention. Roarke caught him staring, awarded the man a thoroughly exasperated look and gestured impatiently at him to get them moving.

±±±±±±±±±

"So," Roarke said teasingly, "you found my reaction amusing, did you?"

His daughter giggled. "Oh, come on, Father, even I could tell you weren't expecting competition. I mean…you looked positively broadsided for a minute, and then you were definitely not happy about the whole thing."

Roarke smiled a little crookedly. "I'll admit to having been unprepared," he said, "but surely I didn't appear that upset."

"Oh, it showed all right," Leslie said merrily. "Incidentally…weren't we supposed to go to the hotel and find out what's on Jean-Claude's menu for the weekend?"

"If he asks for fugu," Roarke said, brow furrowing just perceptibly, "I may force him into an early retirement." Leslie burst out laughing, dropped the handmade campaign sign onto the porch and accompanied her chuckling father to the station wagon.


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- July 21, 1992

At the hotel they entered through the lobby, just in time to overhear one of the front-desk clerks blurt out, "And did you see that rock she had on her finger?" Her companion jabbed her and gestured at the entering pair, and both straightened up in a flash. "Good morning, Mr. Roarke and Miss Leslie!" they chorused, as if rehearsed.

Roarke's return smile was ironic; Leslie grinned and said sweetly, "Having a slow morning, ladies?"

"It's dead around here," admitted the girl who had mentioned the "rock". Her nametag proclaimed her to be Nokua; she was a native of Polynesian descent. "I'm about ready for my lunch break, to tell you the truth."

"Actually," ventured the other girl, whose nametag said _Tomiko_, "one interesting thing did happen a little while ago. Someone came in with a lot of campaign posters and asked if it was okay to put one up in here. Mr. Omamara told her to go ahead."

"Mr. Omamara did?" Leslie said, flicking a swift glance at Roarke. Technically, he had the authority; Jimmy had been promoted to general manager of the hotel several months before, when his supervisor had quit in a huff over some trivial incident and left to take a job in the states. Still, Leslie was faintly surprised that he'd allowed it.

Nokua, apparently in a mood to gossip, leaned conspiratorially over the counter and confided, "Personally I think it smacks of nepotism, but he _is_ the manager." She gestured at a bright-blue sign, this one decorated with primary-colored poster paint, attached to a support post some feet away from where Roarke and Leslie stood.

"Who put up the poster?" asked Roarke casually. Leslie peered at him, wondering where the curiosity had come from, before wandering over to examine it.

"Very pretty lady," Nokua volunteered eagerly. "She had very light hair, and her eyes were a lovely shade of green. And Mr. Roarke, you should have seen the rock on her finger!"

"Igneous or sedimentary?" was Roarke's dry retort, making Nokua blink in confusion and triggering a vivid blush in Tomiko, before he turned away. Leslie snickered at Roarke's quip, and he winked at her out of the desk clerks' sight. He cast one uninterested glance at the poster, then paused and read it more carefully. Leslie saw where his attention was focused and nodded with a wry grin. The poster proclaimed: _A BREATH OF FRESH AIR IN A STAIL GOVERMENT! ELECT CAMILLE OMAMARA FOR ISLAND LORD MAYER AND CHANGE FANTASY ISLAND FOR GOOD!_

"But not for the better," said Roarke when he read the last words, and Leslie found herself caught up in merriment again. "Certainly not for better spelling."

"My gosh, Father!" Leslie sputtered, wiping tears from her eyes. "You're really the master of sarcastic quips today! Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm fine, Leslie, why do you ask?" Roarke inquired, looking genuinely surprised at this query, and then caught a movement from the dining room. "Ah yes…here he comes." Leslie turned and realized he was referring to Jean-Claude, who was making a beeline for them, the usual scowl on his jowly face.

"_M'sieur _Roarke, why eez ze keetchen not off-leemits to _les enfants?"_ he demanded, in high dudgeon. "No fewair zen four…count zem, _four!_…come eento ze keetchen and ask me to 'ave some…_postair_ on ze wall. _Non,_ I say, _non!_ Zey do not belong zere!…"

"I understand, Jean-Claude," Roarke broke off his tirade. "We came to find out what you intend to put on this weekend's menu, so if you don't mind…"

His expression made Jean-Claude forcibly calm himself. _"Oui, m'sieur._ I plan to sairve squeed, eef you please. And for Meess Leslie, of course, zere will be swordfeesh." Leslie, who had turned rather pale at the chef's special request, nodded quickly and even managed a sickly-looking smile.

Even Roarke looked slightly taken aback, but he rallied more smoothly. "Squid…of course. I'll see that notes are made accordingly. Thank you, Jean-Claude…shall we be on our way, Leslie?"

"By all means," she agreed, a little more enthusiastically than she had quite meant to, and followed Roarke out the door. She groaned once they were in the parking lot and asked plaintively, "Exactly when does he retire again?"

Roarke laughed. "Clearly not soon enough for you. Not to change the subject, but it sounds as if your friend Camille already has a campaign staff of sorts."

"Seems so. From Nokua's description, Maureen put up the poster in the lobby, although I don't know what she means by that 'rock' she mentioned on her finger. And Jean-Claude must have meant the quads—who obviously are the masterminds behind those oh-so-professional campaign posters."

Roarke's soft laugh was abruptly silenced when someone called their names, and they paused and looked around. Jimmy Omamara had just popped out the lobby door and was running in their direction. "Excuse me, I don't mean to delay you…but Leslie, Camille asked me to give you a message." He looked embarrassed, and Leslie wondered why.

"Okay, shoot," she said.

Jimmy hesitated, casting a furtive glance at Roarke, and cleared his throat. "Uh, well, Camille says she's waging an all-out campaign to beat out Mr. Roarke for island lord mayor, and…she wants you to help." He rolled his eyes and looked away, speaking volumes about what he thought of this.

Leslie was so amazed she didn't think before she spoke. "Help her beat my own father?" she exclaimed.

Jimmy turned a fascinating shade of red. "It's only that Camille rationalized that since Mr. Roarke always seems to win, he won't need anyone campaigning for him…"

"Whereas Camille needs all the help she can get," Leslie inserted dryly.

"To put it in a nutshell, yes," Jimmy agreed, shuffling his feet uneasily. "And evidently she figures having the opposition's own daughter campaigning against him would help sway the voters in her direction, though I don't see how. She probably supposes that if even Mr. Roarke's daughter thinks it's time for a change—" He caught himself, and his red face seemed to be headed for spontaneous combustion. "Great Scott, I'm really shoving my foot in it. I apologize, Mr. Roarke, but this is my wife's thinking, not mine."

"Don't worry, Jimmy, we're not in the habit of shooting the messenger," Roarke assured him with a slightly strained smile.

"Well," Leslie began, choosing her words carefully, "tell Camille I'm…flattered that she asked, but…uh, as I'm sure she knows very well, I'm always quite busy with my job. You can tell her I said good luck."

Jimmy grinned reluctantly. "Just between you, me and the proverbial lamppost, she's going to need that too." They all laughed, and Jimmy let out a sigh. "Well, thank God that's over. Now I can get back to work and report back to my wife with a clear conscience." He turned and jogged back to the hotel; Roarke and Leslie watched him for a moment, then looked at each other and both shook their heads.

‡ ‡ ‡

Camille was at that moment sitting in her badly cluttered living room, along with her cousin Lauren McCormick, Myeko Tokita (who had her nearly-four-month-old son Alexander in her arms), and Maureen Tomai in accompaniment. The Ichino quadruplets, aged thirteen, were also there, diligently working on more campaign posters. Posterboard in all the colors of the rainbow leaned against the walls; Magic Markers, pots of tempura paint, crayons, colored pencils, jars of paste, and vials of glitter in assorted colors were scattered across the kitchen table; sheets of paper, many of which were crumpled into wads, littered the floor and furniture; and half-completed signs lay on the coffee table, their glue-and-glitter messages slowly drying. They had been plotting all morning, trying to think of new places for the quads to display more signs. All of a sudden the phone rang.

"Maybe that's Jimmy," said Lauren.

"Or it might be Leslie, offering to help," Myeko suggested optimistically.

Maureen looked dubious. "It's probably just your mother checking on the quads."

"Well, we'd find out if I could just find the damn phone," Camille complained, scrabbling frantically through the campaign detritus while her friends tried to help. Finally Camille dug it out from under a mountain of discarded notebook paper, dumped out of the lone trash bucket by David. "Aha! Hello?"

"Hi honey, it's me." Camille shot a grin at her cousin; the voice was Jimmy's. "Uh…I hate to say this, but I've got some bad news."

Camille's grin faded. "What?"

"I saw Leslie, and she said to tell you she can't help with your campaign. She's too busy working. But she did say she wishes you good luck."

"She probably thinks I'll need it," Camille muttered with ill grace, scowling out the window. On the other end, Jimmy coughed.

"Come on, Camille, even if she was just making an excuse, I personally can't blame her. You really put her on the spot, trying to make her choose between her friend and her father like that."

"I don't need any lectures," Camille said in disgust, "but thanks for the message anyway." She hung up and favored everyone in the room with a black glare.

"I take it Leslie's not helping," Myeko said.

"She will if I have anything to say about it," Camille decided and lifted the receiver again, punching out 001—the number at the main house—with more force than necessary. Maureen, Myeko and Lauren looked at one another.

Maureen gave a delicate little cough. "Uh, Camille, I don't think you should try to push her into it—"

"I'm just trying to find out the real reason why she won't do it," Camille interrupted her. "Jimmy said he thought it might be an excuse." She tapped her foot and waited while the line buzzed repeatedly; at last she was forced to hang up. "No one's there. If you ask me, it really is only an excuse. She just doesn't want to get involved in what she thinks is a losing campaign."

"Oh, Camille, for crying out loud, quit being such a spoiled brat," Lauren said, losing her patience. "We've known Leslie long enough to know that her job keeps her really busy, and we also know how much she loves doing it. I think even if it didn't put her in an awkward position, she'd still steer clear. We don't see much of her, you know, so that in itself is testimony that she's busy all the time."

"I think she made the right decision myself," Myeko said thoughtfully. "After all, this little shack of yours holds only so many people, Camille, and between the four of us and the quads, we've already got enough of a crowd." She grinned at the others.

"Camille, can we have some lunch?" asked Jeremy Ichino then from the table. "We're all starved. Besides, we've been painting posters all morning."

"Yeah, I think we've earned a decent meal by now," Julianne Ichino added.

Camille sighed deeply, picking up the phone and setting it within easy reach before going into the kitchen. "Fine, but while you're waiting, find David. After he overturned the wastebasket, he took off for parts unknown."

"He's probably hiding under the bed again," said Jennette Ichino, sliding out of her chair and trotting off to the bedrooms.

Jonathan Ichino nodded. "He loves it under there. You'd think we'd hear him sneezing on account of all the dust bunnies, but we never do."

"Dust bunnies?" Camille echoed, eyeing Jonathan threateningly. Julianne and Jeremy snickered; Jonathan shrugged unrepentantly.

"Like you ever do that much housework, sis," he scoffed, grinning. At that everyone broke into laughter, even Camille. Good spirits restored, she extended the lunch offer to Maureen, Lauren and Myeko, who all accepted.

After lunch, Camille tried the main house again, ignoring the protests of Lauren and Maureen. It took her another two attempts before someone finally picked up on the other end. "Yes?" said a crisp, businesslike voice.

"Hi, Mr. Roarke. Is Leslie around?" Camille asked. "This is Camille."

At the main house, Roarke covered the receiver; Leslie was just climbing the steps into the foyer, preparing to run another errand. "Leslie, one moment. Camille is calling for you." He held out the phone receiver.

Leslie's eyebrows popped up. "Is that so? I guess word got back to her, and I'm about to hear either an impassioned plea or a demand for a better excuse." Roarke grinned as she accepted the receiver from him. "Hi, Camille."

"All right, Leslie Hamilton, what's the real reason you're not helping me with my campaign?" Camille demanded.

She sounded quite belligerent, but Leslie was used to this and tried to lighten the mood a bit. "My warmest felicitations to you too," she said with gentle sarcasm. "Don't I even rate a _hello there_ anymore?"

"Okay, hello, how are you, I'm fine, happy to hear you are too. Now why'd you refuse to help me out?"

Leslie noted Roarke watching her and rolled her eyes theatrically, pointing at the receiver; Roarke laughed softly and returned his primary attention to the ledger that lay in front of him. Into the phone Leslie said, "Didn't Jimmy give you my message? You know I have no time to spare—there's far too much to do."

"Yeah, like organizing Mr. Roarke's campaign, I'm sure," riposted Camille acidly.

"What campaign?" Leslie asked, her own temper beginning to flare in spite of her best intentions. "I have this job, Camille. I'm sure you've heard of those. It's something some people do in order to earn a living."

"Cute," said Camille curtly. "Come off it, Leslie, that's only an excuse and you know it. You just don't want me winning this election out of spite."

Genuinely hurt, Leslie protested, "Camille, stop it!" Her tone made Roarke look up again, this time with mild concern.

"Look, Leslie, either you help me out, or you can forget about being friends," Camille shot at her. Leslie drew in a sharp, startled breath and stood up straight; Roarke frowned, waiting. After a moment she regrouped.

"So that's the way you want it," Leslie said coldly. "Well, fine, then, but just let me give you a little bit of advice. You'd better get some professionally-printed posters made if you expect anyone to take you seriously. Those homemade ones aren't going to do a thing for your credibility." So saying, she hung up.

Roarke eyed her in surprise. "Now tell me," he asked in genuine perplexity, "why did you suggest she do that? I seem to recall that Tattoo had some very nice campaign posters made up, and they didn't help his cause at all."

Leslie returned his gaze with a speaking look of her own and said quite deliberately, "I know." And very slowly, she smiled. Roarke, chuckling, began to shake his head at her, for they both well remembered just what had happened in Tattoo's case.

±±±±±±±±±

Leslie was sitting alone in the study, occupying her usual chair beside Roarke's desk, writing an essay a teacher had requested on that ancient chestnut, "What I Did During Summer Vacation." She had had the most enthralling summer of her entire life and found herself scribbling madly away, trying to record everything that she had experienced in the last three months. She barely noticed when the foyer door opened and Tattoo entered, lugging a collection of large posters along. They were so big that it took quite a bit of effort for him to get them inside, and he had to kick the door shut since both hands were occupied. His foot connected with more force than he really needed, and the noise penetrated Leslie's concentration enough to make her stop writing and look up.

"Hi, Leslie," he said breathlessly when he saw her lift her head.

"Hi, Tattoo," she replied. "What's all that stuff?"

Tattoo beamed. "They're my new campaign posters. Want to take a look?"

"Sure," she agreed amiably and dropped her pen atop the half-written essay, helping Tattoo prop the posters up against the back of one of the club chairs. Then she lifted one of them and peered at it. A black-and-white photo of a smiling Tattoo, dressed to the nines in bowler hat and pinstriped tails, took up the bottom half of the poster; the text repeated the rhetoric on the sandwich boards he'd been wearing that morning, in white block letters on a dark-blue background with a white border.

"Wow, these are really great!" she exclaimed. "They came out perfectly, and that's the best picture I've ever seen of you. You look ready for a night out on the town."

Tattoo grinned. "Nice of you to say so, Leslie. But I don't know if they're all perfect. I need to double-check them in case the printers misspelled anything. Were you working on schoolwork?" At her nod: "Don't let me bother you, then. You go back to what you were doing, and I'll just go through these."

She settled back into her chair and took up her written narrative again, while Tattoo set about examining each individual poster. It wasn't long before each was engrossed to the point that they forgot about the other altogether; so it was a complete surprise to them both when the door opened and admitted Roarke. Leslie blinked in amazement at the sight that greeted her; Tattoo's posters were now spread out all over the room, and he was still in the process of proofreading. Roarke, no less astonished and decidedly annoyed to boot, swept his incredulous gaze around the messy office.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded sharply.

Tattoo, just now alerted to Roarke's arrival, turned around and beamed at him. "Oh, hi, boss! How do you like my campaign posters?" He gestured at the nearest one.

Roarke's voice was crisp with displeasure. "I don't like them," he retorted, "or anything else that clutters up my private study!"

Tattoo peered at him in an oddly challenging way that riveted Leslie's attention. "Boss," he said slyly, "you're not unhappy because I'm running against you, are you?"

Roarke contrived amusement, with something short of the results he'd been aiming toward. "Not at all, Tattoo," he said through an ever-so-slightly-forced chuckle, "not at all. I will admit, however, that some people have considered that my various terms in office were without parallel. And I am somewhat at a loss," he concluded, his voice steadily rising, "to understand why, for the first time, I am being challenged at the polls!" He halted, just then becoming aware of Leslie's startled expression and Tattoo's knowing smile, and added dismissively, "Not that it really matters." Leslie had to bite her lip to hide her grin.

"Boss," Tattoo said then, "the job carries power—that's why I want it!"

"Really?" Roarke demanded, arms akimbo.

Tattoo nodded in eager anticipation. "There's thousands of crazy groupies—power-loving chicks—who go ape over a political boss!" he explained with relish, while Roarke rolled his eyes and Leslie shook her head, grinning.

Roarke had clearly had enough. "Tattoo, I hereby order you to gather up all this…all this campaign literature and get it out of my private office, _immediately!_ Do you understand?"

To both his and Leslie's astonishment, Tattoo drew his spine straight and regarded Roarke almost frostily. "Boss, I'm sorry, I cannot do that," he said with cool formality. "You'll have to talk to my campaign manager."

"Really!" Roarke said again, his eyes blazing. "And who, may I ask, might that be?" So saying, he shifted his gaze expectantly to Leslie, who stared blankly back at him.

Before she had time to gather the presence of mind to deny anything, however, Tattoo spoke, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. "Him."

Since Leslie very obviously wasn't a "him", Roarke let his gaze follow Tattoo's prompt at the same time Leslie did, and they both found themselves staring in disbelief at none other than Chester the Chimp. Chester bared his teeth in a caricature of a grin and grunted at Roarke as if trying to tell him something; at wits' end, Roarke directed a supplicating gaze at the ceiling and sighed loudly. Leslie shook her head and snorted in annoyance, which caught Tattoo's attention. She reacted to his questioning look by making a show of concentrating on her essay. Puzzled, Tattoo stood and stared at her, while Roarke gathered a stack of flyers from the seat of his chair and deliberately handed them over to Chester before shooting Tattoo a sharp look and settling behind the desk.

±±±±±±±±±

"You know," Roarke echoed Leslie's last two words and raised one eyebrow.

"Of course, Father," she said with overdone innocence. "How could you possibly doubt me? I was only trying to help out a friend."

Roarke's faint smile was filled with irony. "Indeed! Or should that be '_ex_-friend', perhaps?" he suggested. Leslie simply shrugged and walked out the door, and he shook his head again, once more drawing the ledger toward him.


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- July 21, 1992

Camille, having replaced the receiver with a surprised look, glanced around the room at the disapproving faces of her friends. "She hung up on me."

"I don't blame her, after what you just said," Maureen shot back.

"Well, so what'd _she_ say?" Myeko prompted. Camille told them.

"She said you should have campaign posters printed?" Lauren asked. "That's gonna cost a bundle, you know."

"But she does have a point," Myeko said. "How can you take anyone seriously whose campaign posters are written in glitter and crayon?"

"And misspelled to boot," added Maureen.

All four quads looked up from their latest work-in-progress. "What'd we spell wrong then?" Jeremy wanted to know.

"Oh, let me make a list," Camille suggested sourly, picking up one of the posters that was still drying on the coffee table. "Hmm. In this one, you misspelled 'mayor' and 'government'…real nice work, guys. And hey, who left the second L out of my name in this one?" She lifted a red poster and displayed it around the room; her friends burst out laughing, and so did Julianne, Jennette and Jonathan, all of whom elbowed Jeremy, the poster's creator.

"Well, how come you didn't tell us before you went out and put them up?" Jeremy shouted in self-defense. "I mean, we weren't the only ones who nailed 'em up."

"I put up a misspelled one at the hotel," Maureen remarked, shaking her head. "And probably the ones I put up at the casino and the pool were spelled wrong too, but I was in a hurry to meet Grady for breakfast and I didn't pay that much attention."

"You mean he hasn't moved into that white elephant of yours with you?" Myeko asked in surprise, gently bouncing Alexander on one knee. "I mean, now that you two are engaged and all…"

"That place is too big for both of us," Maureen said, sighing. "Trouble is, I still have no idea what to do with it. Russell didn't realize what he was doing to me when he willed it to me. It's tempting to raze it and build Grady's dream house there, but the building itself is in darn good shape and it seems kind of a waste to level the place."

"Don't you ever see ghosts there, Miss Tomai?" Jennette asked in all seriousness, abandoning the latest poster and coming to join the older women. "I mean, we hear stories about that chateau all the time. How this weird old silent-movie guy cast evil spells in there and died there, and how some woman went nuts in that place, and how Miss Leslie even saw her dead husband in there…and then that actor guy died there too. Don't you think the place is jinxed or something?"

Maureen stared at her, green eyes widening slightly as she processed Jennette's words.

"Well…you know, I never considered it that way. Not that I give any credence to ghost stories, but now that you bring it up, the place does have kind of a creepy history." She looked at Lauren. "You were thinking of moving, weren't you? Want to rent some rooms from me?"

Lauren grinned. "Hey, ghosts don't bother me any. If you want corporeal company, I'll be happy to move in." They both laughed.

"Do you think we could get back on track here?" Camille finally demanded, having examined the quads' posters and determined that at least one word on every single one of them was spelled wrong. "Geez, you guys, you're thirteen years old and going into eighth grade. You'd think by now you'd've learned how to spell."

"You know I hate spelling," Jeremy protested.

"That's no excuse," Camille told him. "You should have looked it up, or at least asked one of us how to spell what you didn't know. Now you've made it all academic. I'm gonna _have_ to get professionally-done posters after this. What kind of money are we looking at here? Do I have to go have my portrait taken?"

"Maybe you should have asked Leslie before you got all snippy at her and she hung up on you," Lauren said pointedly, the only one unafraid to tell her cousin the unvarnished truth. "It wasn't exactly fair of you to tell her you'd stop being her friend unless she got involved in your campaign…such as it is." Maureen snickered at this.

"It's not like Mr. Roarke would've fired her if she did," Camille said sulkily.

"That's not the point!" Lauren said, exasperated, and saw her cousin gear up to deliver the expected response. "Never mind what it is, either. Leslie did bring up something valid. If you hope to get any actual votes when election day gets here, you need to start sinking some fairly serious money into this campaign of yours. Besides printing up posters, you need to get airtime on the island radio station, take out ads in the _Fantasy Island Chronicle_, and set up at least one interview. And when you do, you better be ready for it. They're going to ask you for your campaign platform, and right now, you haven't got one."

Maureen caught Myeko's amused gaze and observed, "This is starting to look more like an ego trip than an actual run for office."

"I _have_ a platform!" Camille insisted. "If I get elected, I'll change Fantasy Island for the better—just like it says on those misspelled posters." She awarded the quads a dirty look that encompassed all four of them; they all stuck their tongues out at her in return.

"That's a slogan, not a campaign," Maureen said scornfully.

"What Maureen means is, what're you going to actually do to change the island for the better, assuming you get the position you're scrambling for?" Myeko clarified.

In the middle of her sentence the door opened, and Jimmy came in for his lunch break as he often did. "Yeah, you know, I was kinda wondering about that myself." He grinned at the quads and gave Camille a kiss hello. "Hi, folks."

"Hi, Jimmy," they all chorused, except for Camille, who grumbled something.

Jimmy slid a finger under her chin and lifted it till she was forced to look at him. "I'm serious, hon," he said. "What's the grand plan? Are you gonna raise wages and lower taxes? Pass new laws restricting fishing too close to the island? Pave the Main House Lane and the road into the Enclave and the turnoff to the airport? Outlaw gambling so that your mother loses her job? Bring in ethnic restaurants for our guests from places besides the U.S.?"

"Hire teachers of obscure foreign languages for the high school," Maureen added with a grin, "such as Tagalog and Estonian."

Reluctantly Camille joined in the ensuing laughter. "Okay, okay, you got me. I admit, I'm not exactly prepared." The moment she made the admission, though, her face lit up. "Wait a minute, you just gave me an idea! I could lobby for a good, small college right here on the island. Our own graduates! That way we wouldn't have to send every graduating high-school class off-island for further education."

"Oh, I don't know," Myeko remarked doubtfully. "Remember when we all graduated and we couldn't wait to get out of here so we could see a different part of the world when we started college? The only ones who didn't go were Leslie and Maureen. The rest of us did, and most of our classmates did too."

"Why didn't you go?" Lauren asked curiously of Maureen. "I could see why Leslie didn't bother, between her not having been born here and the fact that she was pretty much in line for the job she's got now. But what about you?"

Maureen shrugged. "College wasn't really in my plans. I've always worked for my mother's catering service, and it's my understanding that when she retires, I'll take over. And I like the work. Since I know how to cook, I'm not reduced to eating TV dinners and canned spaghetti all the time."

Lauren laughed. "I bet Grady loves it too."

"I still think a college is a great idea," Camille said. "Maybe we'd lose all the local high-school grads, but on the other hand, grads from other countries would positively kill to attend college here on the island. And hey, Maureen, that'd be a perfect use for Russell's bequest to you. You could turn it into dorms and rent them out."

"So is that what you're going to run on? Building a college on Fantasy Island?" Jimmy asked skeptically, while Maureen pondered Camille's idea. "I don't know…sounds like it won't hold up all by itself."

"Well, I liked the idea about paving the streets," Camille ventured thoughtfully.

"That was supposed to be a joke," said Jimmy, rolling his eyes and heading for the kitchen. "Hey, Quads, did you leave any lunch for me?"

"No," the quadruplets chorused back immediately. It was clear that they and Jimmy went through this ritual every day, from his jocular manner of addressing them and their automatic, perfectly-synchronized response. This time it got laughs from Lauren, Myeko and Maureen, who hadn't heard it before.

"Well, if that's gonna be your campaign platform," Lauren said, "then the next step is to line up the ads and interviews and air time I mentioned before. Maybe in the meantime you can think of something to go along with the college idea, but for now that actually isn't all that bad. I have to wonder what Mr. Roarke would say, though…it _is_ his island, after all is said and done. He just allows the rest of us to live here."

"Wow, that sounds pretty autocratic," Maureen remarked, grinning. "I mean, like he's running a billionaire's playground paradise on a lark, just to give himself something to do, and watching the rest of us poor stupid peons doing all the work."

Myeko laughed. "I'd love to hear Leslie's opinion of that." She arose and settled the baby on her hip. "Well, I gotta get going. The little guy here isn't going to take his nap till I get him back to his own room; he's picky about where he sleeps. See you guys later."

"I'll go with you," Lauren said, standing up as well. "I think we've done about all we can do for now. Camille, you could use the afternoon to call print shops around here and find out what you can expect to spend for posters."

"Hey, whoa," Jimmy yelled from the kitchen. "You want her to spend real money on this stuff? What was wrong with the quads' posters?"

"Have you actually looked at any of them?" Lauren demanded, grinning. "There's a whole bunch of them around here, and Maureen posted at least one in the hotel lobby, for Pete's sake. Take a look at those and then ask me that again."

Once out the door, Myeko and Lauren went as far as the little cottage Myeko shared with Toki and their son before Lauren decided to drop by the main house and see what Leslie was up to. She emerged off the path into the yard at the side of the house and strolled down the lane till she was able to see Roarke and Leslie just finishing a late lunch on the gazebo section of the veranda, where they ate almost all their meals. Roarke was idly studying the front page of that day's _Fantasy Island Chronicle_ while Mariki rolled her wheeled serving cart in their direction.

"You might want to start a subscription to that," she called whimsically, bringing both their heads around to see who was talking. Roarke smiled in greeting.

"Long time no see," Leslie called to her. "What's happening? Out for a stroll?"

"Oh, sort of," Lauren said. "I just blew one day of my vacation brainstorming at Camille's and watching the quads make more posters. Camille's campaign seems to be finally gathering some steam. Just wait till you hear what she…"

"No, don't tell me!" Leslie exclaimed with a laugh. "If you do, it'll spoil everything when we finally see the inevitable interview in the newspaper. It occurs to me that if you're going to keep working on Camille's campaign, you might want to think twice about playing double agent."

"How can I be a double agent when I don't have anything to tell Camille about her opponent's platform?" Lauren countered, laughing. "But okay, if you'd rather hear it straight from the horse's mouth, that's fine by me."

Mariki stopped beside the table and chipped in her two cents while loading dishes. "I don't think Mrs. Omamara has any business running for island lord mayor. She has that little boy to raise, and no political experience at all. I'm going to do like I've always done and vote for Mr. Roarke."

At that Roarke looked up, amused. "I appreciate the endorsement, Mariki," he said with a slight chuckle, "not that we were asking."

"I wasn't telling _you_ so, sir," Mariki replied candidly. "I was telling _her."_ She gestured at Lauren, who laughed again and put up her hands in mock surrender.

"Hey, it doesn't matter to me who you vote for," she said cheerfully. "I just thought I'd drop by and give you a rundown. Listen, are you two sure you're not going to mount a campaign, now that you've got opposition?"

Leslie shrugged. "There's just no time. Father and I both have way too much to do to prepare for the weekend. You know how it is."

"I hate to tell you this, but Camille doesn't quite believe you," Lauren said delicately.

"Then that," Roarke remarked, "is Camille's problem, is it not? You might tell her I wish her all the best in her endeavor; but I'm afraid I simply cannot find the time to spare to counter her campaign with one of my own. And frankly, I didn't expect I would have to do so." His voice was pleasant, but both Lauren and Leslie detected a slight undertone of irritation nevertheless. Leslie stared at him, visited suddenly with a strong sense of déjà vu, while Lauren shrugged unconcernedly.

"No bother, Mr. Roarke," she said easily. "I'll pass on the message, thanks. Enjoy your lunch, and see you later, Leslie."

"Take care," Leslie called after her as she started down the lane. She waited till she was sure Lauren was out of earshot and Mariki had disappeared back into the kitchen with her cart before addressing Roarke.

"Father," she said, "it does bother you, doesn't it?"

"What does?" Roarke queried absently, eyeing a lurid headline on the bottom of the _Chronicle_'s front page.

"That Camille's angling for your position," Leslie said.

Roarke looked up with an expression of what appeared to be honest surprise. "Why should I be? I will readily admit that hearing of her plans to run was an unexpected development; but quite frankly, I don't believe she is much of a threat. Mariki herself noted that she has no political experience at all, and you and I are not the only ones who see that."

"Yes, but you seemed a little…oh, annoyed, I guess, when you gave Lauren that message for Camille," Leslie observed.

"Annoyed? I?" echoed Roarke, looking blank.

"Yes, you," Leslie said, gently teasing, but still prodding. "I'm pretty sure Lauren noticed it too. Come on, Father, I think it's getting to be a bit of a trial for you."

Roarke fixed her with a stare that really was annoyed this time. "My dear Leslie, if you must persist in discussing this subject, may I suggest that you discuss it with someone else. I see no merit whatsoever in belaboring the fact that Camille is determined, for whatever reason, to unseat me; and this is the last time I intend to repeat myself. I am not upset in the slightest over her intention to contest me for an honorary position." By this time his voice had iced over, and its volume had risen enough to carry clear across the veranda.

Leslie studied him with great interest for about thirty seconds, propping her elbow on the table and resting her chin on her fist, before finally nodding in thoughtful acceptance and arising to give him a kiss on the cheek. "I'm glad to hear you're so disinterested, Father," she said lightly, without bothering to conceal her amusement. "Just the way you were when Tattoo ran against you." She grinned outright, glanced at her watch and gave a soft gasp, reminded suddenly of an appointment for which she was in danger of being late. "Oops, gotta run…" She turned and crossed the veranda at a half-jog.

"Young lady," Roarke's voice thundered after her. Leslie halted beside the car, which she had left parked just in front of the sidewalk, and turned back to him.

"What's the matter, Father?" she asked. "I'm running late."

"Listen well, Leslie Susan," Roarke warned, the last of his patience exhausted. "I was not upset when Tattoo ran against me; and I am not upset that Camille is running against me. I am delighted by the change in routine. Is that quite clear?"

His temper had kicked in unexpectedly; Leslie hadn't seen that particular expression on his handsome features at least since the last time Chester the Chimp had raided the study when she was about sixteen. "Of course you're delighted, Father," she called back, but found herself unable to control the grin that broke out. "Not that it really matters, of course!"

Even from where she stood, she saw Roarke's expression change again, and slapped a hand over her mouth before ducking hastily into the driver's seat and peeling away down the lane, raising a huge dust cloud. She managed to hold back her laughter till she had gained the Ring Road and knew she'd probably pay for her little jibe later, but the temptation had been irresistible.

On the porch, Mariki had returned for the rest of the dishes and had overheard the last exchange between her employer and his daughter. "Sounds to me like you need a campaign, sir," she observed with tart amusement.

Roarke turned sharply to glare at her. "Do you wish to spearhead that campaign?" he invited, his voice heavy with frost.

Mariki shrugged, remarkably unfazed by his show of temper. "I just thought Miss Leslie must have hit a nerve, to have brought out that reaction in you. I haven't seen you so happy to have opposition since Mr. Tattoo ran for island lord mayor."

At this, Roarke's glare blazed, but his voice grew ominously quiet. "That…will…do," he announced with implacable finality, and with that stalked firmly away. Mariki wisely waited until he had gone inside the house to give voice to her mirth as she finished clearing the dishes off the table.


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- August 15, 1992

It had been another busy Saturday so far; their guests consisted of a young couple who wanted to emulate their TV heroes from the series "Moonlighting", and the brash, talkative owner of a car dealership who found himself being bested in business competition with his own brother and wanted to find a way to one-up him. As it had been most of the week thus far, lunch was late and Roarke was even later. By the time he finally joined Leslie, she was engrossed in a newspaper article.

"That must be quite the literary masterpiece you're reading," he observed, amused, taking his place at the table. Startled, Leslie jerked her head up, then grinned.

"Well, they do say truth is stranger than fiction, and if this interview with Camille is anything to go by, they're right…whoever 'they' are." She sat up suddenly and skimmed the article, looking for a particular quote. "Listen to this. She told the interviewer this and he printed it verbatim. 'Ms. Omamara tells us, "My main goal, if I'm elected, is to get a good, small college built right here on Fantasy Island. We might still see all our local graduates go off to Hawaii or points even farther away for their secondary education, but we'd more than make up for it by accepting graduates from other places. Students from all over the world would go nuts for the chance to attend college on Fantasy Island." ' "

Roarke had stopped moving and was staring at her. "That's her platform?"

"Apparently. She spends most of the interview discussing her ideas about this college of hers. But wait, there's more…as they say in the TV commercials. She even came up with the idea of paving some of the secondary roads, and goes so far as to provide a complete list of the ones she thinks need it. And ours is on that list."

Roarke glanced at the dirt lane that ran past the house and trained his gaze on the ceiling for a moment. "What a concept," he said. "It would hardly be worth the expense, since there are still so few cars here."

Leslie nodded, folding the paper and dropping it into the empty third chair. "I don't want to be a naysayer, but something tells me this election's as much a foregone conclusion as any other ordinary one—at least where the race for island lord mayor is concerned." She caught sight of Mariki approaching with the lunch cart. "Here's Mariki—she must have seen you come in. What happened?"

"I was waylaid by Mr. Marney," Roarke said. "He kept me behind asking me all manner of highly technical questions about our vehicles." He gave Leslie an ironic look. "I'm afraid he's hoping to talk me into a very large purchase."

"Oh, the car salesman," Leslie said and grinned. "If he keeps it up, Father, you should threaten to terminate his fantasy." They both laughed.

Once they'd finished eating, Leslie picked up the paper again and read the conclusion of the article. "She's definitely on about that college thing," she said finally. "For someone with no political experience, she can talk pretty well. The way she presents the idea, you almost want to go ahead and approve it."

"There's one small problem," Roarke remarked. "We're not a large island; and such educational institutions take up quite a bit of space. The only way for us to obtain that space is to clear a very large percentage of the jungle in the interior; and I find that objectionable in the extreme. We humans are not the only inhabitants of Fantasy Island."

"Well put, Father," Leslie said with admiration. "Maybe we should mount a campaign so you can make that observation public."

Roarke laughed. "As you have repeatedly insisted to Camille, my child, we have no time for such a thing, even if I were so inclined; and there is no indication of how many people feel her idea is a good one. Above all else, she must win the election before she can carry out any of her plans."

"True," Leslie agreed and grinned. "Just as well. I wasn't much in the mood for being campaign manager."

"Oh?" said Roarke. "No more than you were thirteen years ago?" He laughed when Leslie rewarded him with a dirty look.

±±±±±±±±±

"Leslie!" Roarke called out from the veranda, seeing her crossing the lawn at the side of the main house, passing Tattoo in the act of handing out flyers. "Come here, please."

She detoured toward the house and trotted up the steps. "What's up, Mr. Roarke?"

"Come inside for a moment," Roarke said, guiding her along toward the door with a hand between her shoulder blades, tossing a last glance over his shoulder at the actively-campaigning Tattoo. Once inside the study, he turned to her. "Tell me, how much time has Tattoo been spending promoting his run for office?"

Leslie's return gaze was blank. "I don't know," she said.

Roarke frowned slightly. "Haven't you been with him all day?"

"No," she said. "I just came back from the pool. The bartender said he's out of tomato juice and he needs more. He claims that guy Mr. Forbush has been hanging around drinking Bloody Marys all afternoon."

Roarke's eyebrows shot up with surprise, but he dismissed this for the moment. "I see. Thank you for the message, Leslie…but I thought…"

"No, I'm not helping Tattoo with his campaign," Leslie told him, realizing where he was heading with his line of questioning. Her expression and her voice had both frozen over. "He asked me, but I told him I had other things to do."

"But I thought you finished your essay for school," Roarke said. "You were working so diligently on it when I came in here a while ago."

"I did," said Leslie. "But there's other stuff here to do, and if Tattoo's gonna stand around promoting his candidacy, you might need me."

Roarke suppressed a smile. "Ah. Well, if you don't mind my asking, just out of curiosity…why _aren't_ you helping Tattoo?"

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Maybe I would have before, but now…well…" She hesitated; Roarke waited with expectant interest, and finally she blurted, "I mean, come on. Anyone who hires a chimpanzee for his campaign manager is bound to be desperate, and who wants to be part of that?"

Roarke gave her a skeptical look, fighting another smile with only partial success. "Now, Leslie," he admonished, "you might give Tattoo the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he simply couldn't find anyone else."

"Oh, sure he could have," Leslie retorted scornfully. "But it's too late now. I wouldn't be his campaign manager if he came in here and begged me." She cleared her throat and straightened to her full height, attempting a dignified mien. "Is it okay if I go over to the hotel and ask them to take the bartender some more tomato juice?"

Roarke let the smile have its way and obligingly dropped the subject. "By all means, Leslie, and thank you for volunteering. On your way out, however, please do me a favor and advise Tattoo that he has spent quite enough time campaigning, and needs to devote some time to his job."

"Be happy to, Mr. Roarke," Leslie agreed with unusual relish and headed out the door. Roarke sat at the desk, chuckling to himself. It was probably going to take Tattoo quite a while to get back on Leslie's good side.

±±±±±±±±±

"Well, for heaven's sake, he could've asked," Leslie protested finally, noting Roarke's rising amusement at the memory.

"Yes, it seems to me he sorely damaged your pride by choosing Chester over you," Roarke observed, grinning. "I don't think you were ever able to ascertain just what qualifications Chester had that you didn't."

Leslie shot him another look and remarked with heavy irony, "He must have been old enough to vote." Roarke fell back in his chair and let his laughter ring across the veranda.

Meanwhile, Camille found herself faced with a very strange problem. She had decided that a change of pace might be nice and had taken the quads and her son out for lunch at the hotel, where Jimmy met them long enough to gulp down a hurried sandwich. It was Jean-Claude's day off, so Camille had felt better about going in and asking for hamburgers for the quads and tiny square sandwiches, of the sort normally presented as _hors d'oeuvre_, for David. Jimmy was busy, though, so he couldn't stay very long, which turned out to be to Camille's sorrow when she was approached by a beefy fellow with a large, toothy grin and a well-fed paunch. "Excuse me…are you the lady runnin' for mayor?" he asked.

Camille stared blankly up at him. "Huh?"

"Come on, Camille, he means 'island lord mayor'," Julianne said.

"Island lord mayor?" echoed the newcomer. "Seein' as she's a woman, maybe it oughta be 'island _lady_ mayor' instead."

The quads looked at one another; Jennette snickered behind her hand, but Julianne nodded. "He's got a point. You should call yourself that if you win."

"Oh, geez," muttered Jonathan and Jeremy in tandem.

"Hush, you guys," Camille told her siblings. "If you don't mind my getting right to the point, mister, what is it you want?"

"Oh, right. Ma'am, my name is Roger Marney, all the way from Drippin' Springs, Texas, and I noticed your interview in this mornin's paper. You been talkin' about pavin' the roads on this little piece of paradise, I hear." He looked around and snagged a chair from an unoccupied table, easily pivoting it around on one leg and straddling it backwards. "There. What I was gettin' down to, ma'am, is this. I own a nice car dealership back in Drippin' Springs, and I got a hankerin' to move my franchise to a place where I have a little less competition, if you know what I mean. Now I notice there aren't too many cars on this island, and I was thinkin', this might be just the business opportunity I need. Tell me, ma'am, when's this election happenin'?"

Overwhelmed, Camille stared at him. "Not till the first Sunday in September," she told him, almond eyes narrowing to suspicious black slits. "Like I said before, what's your point? You're doing a lot of talking but not saying much."

Marney leaned forward over the back of his chair. "That means you got about three weeks to wait 'fore you find out if you're elected, right? That oughta be enough time for us to hammer out a nice little deal. I'll take out an ad in tomorrow's paper and back you up for island lord mayor…"

"Island _lady_ mayor," Julianne corrected him, thereby belatedly cluing Camille in to the fact that the quads were listening avidly to every word.

Marney grinned at her. "Right, little lady, island lady mayor it is. Like I was sayin', I'll back you up in the election if you think you might like to bring in the first car dealership on Fantasy Island."

Camille stared at him, flabbergasted. "Mister, you don't even live here," she said. "I don't see how your proposed ad in the paper is going to have any influence on whatever the voters decide, because nobody here knows who you are." Something else occurred to her and she sat up straight. "And you know, I just realized—this could be construed as bribery."

Marney lifted his hands. "Whoa, whoa, Miz Omamara, now just wait a minute. I'm not stoopin' that low. Roger Marney is an honest car dealer, and there's no funny stuff goin' down here. It's just doin' each other a little favor."

"Like I said, bribery," Camille reiterated. "Sorry, Mr. Marney, no dice." She pointedly turned back to her plate and shot the quads a fierce look that made them all devote their attention to their lunches. Marney stared at them, shrugged in defeat and departed, leaving his chair where he'd put it.

"Why wouldn't you do it?" Jonathan asked finally. "I think it'd be cool to finally have a car dealership here. It takes too long to ride my bike to school."

"You aren't even old enough to drive yet, for one thing," Camille reminded him testily, "so forget it. And just in case they haven't taught you this yet in school, bribery is illegal. If I accepted his so-called deal, and if I won the election, I could be kicked right out of office if it came out that I let that guy bribe me. I'm not going for that kind of stupidity. Besides, this is Mr. Roarke's island, no matter who's island lord—or lady—mayor. If that guy wants to open a business here, he has to get permission from Mr. Roarke."

"Oh," mumbled Jonathan, disappointed. "Geez, and it sounded so cool, too."

"Let's go," Camille said shortly. "I need to get back to researching printing costs."

"I'm not done yet," Jennette protested.

"Then take it with you," Camille said. "Come on, let's get going!" She was eager to leave the hotel; after the encounter with Roger Marney, she wasn't sure who else might try to pull the same stunt on her. Deep inside, she knew her chances of winning were very small, and she had no wish to jeopardize her already precarious odds; but she refused to entertain that thought.

On their way home they happened to see a jeep turn into the Main House Lane, and Camille realized that Roger Marney was at the wheel. She glared after him, stunned. _He must be a guest this weekend!_ _Oh, just wait till I get hold of Leslie…_ she thought blackly. _I can't believe she'd do that to me! _ She secured David in his child seat, mounted her bike and pedaled off after the quads, fuming.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- August 15, 1992

"You did what?" Roarke said in amazement, staring at Roger Marney from where he and Leslie still sat at the now-cleared lunch table. "I'm sorry, Mr. Marney, but Mrs. Omamara was right. Your actions smack of bribery."

Marney literally squirmed where he stood. "What's gonna happen to me, Mr. Roarke?" he protested. "I gotta find a way to get my business up. My brother's stealin' all my customers, and I'm gonna go bankrupt if somethin' doesn't happen soon."

"Bribing someone into giving you an edge isn't the solution to your problems," Roarke told him severely. "Perhaps, instead of taking out an advertisement for a new car dealership, or one supporting Mrs. Omamara's campaign, you should take out one apologizing to her for your presumptions."

Marney grimaced. "You ain't gonna terminate my fantasy, are ya?"

"I should," Roarke said, staring at the man with high disapproval. "In any event, Mr. Marney, even were Camille Omamara to win the election, she could not give you final approval for your plans. Since this is my island, I would be the one you must speak with."

Marney stared at him, then sighed and threw his hands into the air. "I can't get no good luck nowhere," he complained. "And y'know somethin' else, my brother just got here. Saw him at the pool not too long ago, surrounded by women and drinkin' toasts to ever'body in sight. Course, he's prob'ly here for a vacation, and he can sure afford it, seein' as how he's been takin' my customers left and right. An' that's just the last straw, Mr. Roarke!"

"How long has your brother been in business again, Mr. Marney?" Roarke asked.

" 'Bout six months, how come?" Marney asked, peering at him oddly.

"And he's already taken 'all' your customers," Roarke said thoughtfully. "That seems like rather fast work to me. Did you ever wonder how he managed to build up such a loyal customer base so quickly?"

Marney's gaze lost focus and he stared across the duck pond, considering this, while Roarke and Leslie watched him. "Y'know somethin', y'might have a point there. 'Scuse me, Mr. Roarke, I got a couple phone calls to make." Marney ran off the porch, his weight enough to jar the table slightly as he went.

Leslie chuckled. "I wish I'd thought of that. Now that you mention it, it does sound suspicious. I hope he—"

Before she could go on, she heard her name from a near distance. Both she and Roarke sat up in time to see Camille coasting down the Main House Lane on her bike, two-year-old David strapped securely into his little child seat. "I gotta talk to you! Right this minute, seeing as you're obviously loafing around!"

"Uh-oh," Leslie muttered to Roarke, who raised an eyebrow.

"Perhaps I should leave you two alone," he remarked. Camille, who had come to a stop near the porch, heard this and scowled.

"No, Mr. Roarke, as a matter of fact, you might as well hear this, just in case you feel like doing something about it," she said, whacking the kickstand down with one foot and unstrapping her son from his seat. "Do you mind if we go inside?"

"Of course not," Roarke replied, and he and Leslie met Camille on the other end of the porch. David squirmed to get down, and once they were inside the study, Camille let him loose; he promptly ran out to the terrace beyond the open French shutters, climbing up and down on the furniture there. Camille turned to glare at Leslie when she was sure her son would be reasonably safe.

"Okay, what was the deal behind you sending that car dealer over to try to bribe me into letting him open a franchise on the island?" she demanded.

Leslie gawked at her. _"What?"_

Roarke, amazed, broke in. "Just one moment, Camille, how did you draw this conclusion?"

Camille barked out the story of her confrontation with Roger Marney at the hotel. "I saw him coming down here and I realized he must be one of your guests. How could you do a thing like that? Aren't you the one who said you and Mr. Roarke aren't even running a campaign? That's the lowest thing I can think of!"

"Before you start in with your accusations," Leslie snapped back, "let me tell you that we just saw him ourselves a couple of minutes ago and only just found out from him what happened. He did it entirely on his own, no matter what you think." She saw Camille's expression grow even more heated, and finally lost her own temper completely. "You know, Camille, I've about had it with your hostility and your short fuse! I've told you the truth all the way along; if you don't believe it, that's your problem, not mine. You have a bad habit of jumping to conclusions, and frankly, I'm getting really tired of being seen as a liar, an opportunist, a manipulator, and whatever other things you think I've been guilty of ever since you and I first met each other. For the last time, Camille Omamara, we are _not_ running a campaign, and we are doing _nothing_ to short-circuit yours! Believe me or don't, but it's the truth, pure and simple!" She turned to her father, who stood watching, and consciously reigned in her temper before saying, "I think I'd better go check on the Jernigans, if you don't mind, Father. Seems like a good time to see how their fantasy's going."

"By all means, Leslie," Roarke agreed, and she stalked across the office to the time-travel room, shutting herself inside without looking at either Roarke or Camille.

She turned to him then with a bewildered look. "I don't get it, Mr. Roarke. I mean, I didn't see how else it could've happened. Why would some guest of yours have any interest in an island election? That's why I was so sure she put him up to it."

Roarke sighed gently. "While I normally don't discuss my guests' affairs with anyone other than Leslie, perhaps this one time it's justified. Roger Marney has a fantasy of his own, Camille, and he merely hoped to use you to further his own cause. I suggest that you speak to Mr. Marney himself and learn the full truth. You'll find him in the Hibiscus Bungalow. You do know where that is?"

Camille nodded. "I'll find it. Well, all right…thanks, Mr. Roarke. David, come on, son…Mommy has to go see somebody."

Roarke settled behind the desk when she and David had departed and leaned back in his chair, gazing unseeingly at the ceiling. This particular election race was becoming more than a little tiresome, and there were still three weeks left before the polls opened. Perhaps by then they would know the real reason Camille insisted on running in the first place.

§ § § -- August 30, 1992

"I still think you should quit," Jimmy said, running his gaze around the living room and taking in his wife, her brothers and sisters, and her friends. "If the survey isn't enough to convince you to concede, though, then I don't know what is."

"There's still a week left," Camille said glumly, "but I guess you do have a point."

Myeko was reading the article that contained the survey in question. An informal poll of random respondents around the island stated that almost three-quarters of those surveyed planned to vote for Roarke; twenty percent were as yet undecided; and the remaining seven percent thought they might vote for Camille if she could come up with a truly good idea in addition to the one about building a college. "Hm," she remarked. "Guess they didn't like all the other stuff we helped you think up. Well, heck, there's still twenty percent who haven't made up their minds. Maybe that'll help you."

"Maybe I'll sprout wings and fly," Camille retorted.

Myeko grinned. "Well, this is Fantasy Island. Maybe you will."

Everyone burst into laughter, even Camille, who rolled her eyes. "Thanks a lot. Come on, there has to be something! Maureen, what'd you decide about the dorm idea?"

"Nothing," Maureen told her. "There's not much point in making that decision before we find out if you're even in a position to make that idea reality."

"But we have to do _some_thing," Camille insisted frantically. "Can't we think of anything else?"

Jimmy sighed patiently. "Camille, hon, the paper just laughs now when I call them about a new idea. The poll proves nobody's buying all the stuff we thought of already. We tried everything: paved roads, street lights, new police cars, beautification projects, you name it. None of it's going over. And that nonsense about license plates for all the bikes on the island…" He rolled his eyes. "I never heard so much laughing in my life. That's when the newspaper editor hung up on me. Now he doesn't even take my calls."

Lauren sat up. "Hey, wait a minute. There might be a way we can salvage something from this train wreck. I just had this idea. You'll probably still lose the election, but at least we can try to recover some of the costs the campaign incurred."

Camille eyed her sourly, but Jimmy perked up. "I'm all for that. What's the idea?"


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § -- September 6, 1992

The polls opened at eight that morning, but for the first two hours or so, foot traffic was sluggish. Roarke and Leslie themselves didn't expect to be able to go and cast their own votes till late afternoon; the weekend was another busy one, particularly in light of the knowledge that they had an ambitious time-travel fantasy coming up the next weekend and were already in the middle of preliminary preparations. Roarke was perusing a very interesting letter from Alaska when the phone rang; Leslie answered it, had a short conversation and scrawled something down, then hung up and turned to the elegant oaken credenza that stood against the wall at a right angle to the corner bookcase. She yanked open a drawer and began rapidly poking through the hanging folders therein.

Finally growing aware of her urgency, Roarke turned to watch her. "Leslie, why are you in such a rush?" he asked. "Was that Captain Scarabelli?"

"Yes, from the _Clara Jean_…ship-to-shore phone. He says they're going to dock in about three hours and wants us to meet him there with the bill of lading. And I know I put it in here." All the while she continued checking folders.

"Calm down," Roarke said. "Look in the folder labeled _Parthenon."_

Leslie froze for a second, then did as he suggested and found her quarry therein. "Aha, there it is. Good…now I need to find out how many pineapples the plantation has for next weekend, and then—"

"Leslie," Roarke said, raising his voice, and she stopped altogether. "Everything will get done in due time, all right? You need not feel that you must have it all taken care of today. There are still five days. Besides, we do have Jean-Claude's retirement party this afternoon, don't forget."

"Oh, that's right," she said. "I sincerely hope someone else is doing the cooking for that." Roarke laughed.

"I believe Maureen's mother's catering company is handling it," he said, and at that point the phone rang and he picked it up. "Yes? Oh, hello, Maureen." He chuckled to himself and glanced at Leslie. "Yes, she's right here." He held out the receiver to her.

"Speak of the devil," Leslie remarked with a grin and took it. "Thanks. Hi, Maureen, what's going on?"

"Hi, Leslie. Grady and I are just about to leave for the polls and cast our votes," said Maureen. "Have you and Mr. Roarke voted yet?"

"No, we've been scrambling around handling business matters all morning," Leslie confessed. "I'm not sure when we'll be able to get out there."

"Oh, well, maybe we'll see you there," Maureen said. "Grady and I were planning to stick around awhile after we vote, just to give Camille a little moral support."

"You're kidding," Leslie said, astonished. "She's _at_ the polls?"

Maureen laughed. "Oh, she has her reasons. If you two get a long-enough break, you might want to come check it out for yourselves."

"Hmm," Leslie murmured, intrigued. "Now you've got me curious. Well, I'll see if I can talk Father into carving out a few minutes to detour in that direction on our rounds. If you and Grady are still there, that'll be great, since we haven't seen each other in several weeks. We've got some catching up to do."

"Boy, do you have that right," Maureen chortled. "I have news for you, Leslie, and you're the last one to know! If you get down here, you'll finally find out."

"Hey, you can stop tantalizing me," Leslie said, laughing. "Okay, we'll be there."

"I presume something is happening at the voting station," Roarke said, watching her hang up the phone and folding the letter he had been reading.

"According to Maureen, loads of exciting things are going on over there," Leslie said. "Since we have to vote at some point today anyway, we might as well do it now. She said she and Grady are going over there to cast their own votes, so it seems like a good enough time to cast ours. And I think we can use a little break."

"Perhaps so," Roarke agreed. "Very well, why don't we go."

The polling station was located in the high school, and they had to go to the pineapple plantation anyway; so they went there first and got an accounting of available fruit for the upcoming weekend before driving back toward the school and parking in the small lot there amongst dozens of bikes, a police jeep and a luxury car that probably belonged to a resident of the Enclave. It took them a little while to get inside, and longer than that to cast their votes, because quite a few people tried to talk a bit with Roarke. One of them turned out to be a reporter from the _Chronicle_, who dogged both Roarke and Leslie for comments before they were mercifully ushered into their separate voting booths.

At the exit they noticed Leslie's friends sitting around a long table; Camille sat at a card table by herself, with a large open box in front of her. The girls all noted one another at the same time, and everyone exchanged smiles except for Camille, who turned red and looked away. Grady Harding, sitting beside Maureen, arose and shook hands with Roarke.

"Good to see you, Mr. Roarke, Miss Leslie," he said. "Maureen, do you want to ask now? You might not have a better chance."

Maureen reddened too, but grinned. "Well, you see, Grady and I have been engaged for awhile," she explained, making Leslie light up, "and we were hoping you'd perform the ceremony at our wedding, Mr. Roarke."

"I should be delighted to do so," Roarke said. "Congratulations to you both!" Leslie and Maureen hugged each other, and Roarke and Harding strolled off to join Jimmy Omamara and Toki Tokita, both of whom were nearby watching the quads and David. Myeko had Alexander and offered to let Leslie hold him for awhile; she took a seat that Lauren dragged over for her and bounced the five-month-old on her lap while catching up with her friends.

Finally, at a lull in their conversation, Leslie peered past Myeko and Lauren at Camille. "Why isn't she over here with us, and what's in that box on the table and the one underneath it?"

To her surprise, Myeko, Maureen and Lauren looked a little uneasily at one another; then Lauren sighed with some exasperation. "They're T-shirts."

Leslie stared blankly at her. "Pardon me?"

"See, she figured on selling them to make back some of the money she spent on her campaign," Lauren explained. "Trouble is, she's so humiliated by what she thinks is a total failure, she won't even open the boxes."

"Well, how's she supposed to recoup her investment if she doesn't?" Leslie asked practically, shaking her head. "Although I don't quite see what selling T-shirts has to do with her campaign."

"Oh, they're special T-shirts," Maureen said, grinning again. "In fact, Lauren's the one who came up with the idea. Camille was going to sell them especially at the polls."

Leslie frowned, trying to figure it all out, glanced at Myeko and then focused determinedly on Camille. "Myeko, your son and I will be right back," she promised and arose, carrying Alexander over to the table where Camille sat looking sulky. "Hi."

Camille looked up and turned red again. "Hi," she mumbled.

"I hear you've got T-shirts to sell in those boxes," Leslie said.

Camille shrugged. "Yeah, so?"

"So can I see one?" Leslie persisted gently.

"What for?" Camille said rudely.

Leslie let out a patient sigh. "Because I'm interested."

"Oh, I just bet you are," Camille muttered.

Leslie shifted Alexander on her hip and leaned forward. "Look, Camille, you may not believe this, but the reason I'm here has nothing to do with gloating or taunting you or anything else that might be running through your mind. You've really got to get rid of this resentment of yours. Father and I came over here to do our civic duty, and I thought it was a good opportunity to catch up with you guys, since we've seen so little of each other all summer. The election isn't over yet, and I say the subject is off limits till it is. I'm trying to extend the proverbial olive branch here, because in spite of everything that's happened since this campaign of yours started, I still consider you my friend." She straightened back up, satisfied that she had Camille's full attention and understanding. "Now then—are you going to show me one of those T-shirts, or not?"

Camille stared at her for another few seconds, then quirked a reluctant quarter-smile and extracted a box cutter from her pocket. Leslie and Alexander both watched while she slit the box open and retracted the blade within its sheath, then folded back the flaps and lifted out the shirt on top. Shaking it open, she displayed it at Leslie. On the front was the message, in big red, white and turquoise letters on a dark-blue shirt, _"I SURVIVED THE CAMPAIGN OF CAMILLE OMAMARA: SEPTEMBER 6, 1992."_

Leslie laughed. "Hey, that's great! So how much is it?"

Camille, looking astonished, lowered the shirt and peered at her over the top. "Uh… they're fifteen dollars each."

"Hm," Leslie mused and turned to Alexander, who, attracted by her movement, turned his own head to stare back at her. "So tell me, Alexander, what do you think of that shirt? You like that?" She gestured playfully at the shirt Camille held; Alexander just looked back at her and suddenly gurgled. Leslie played along. "You do, huh? Y'know, I think you've got good taste. In that case, I'll take one." She dug into the pocket of the dress she always wore on weekends, turning simultaneously to her other friends and calling out with a big teasing grin, "Hey, Myeko, get over here and buy your son a T-shirt—he wants one!"

"Oh, gimme a break!" Myeko yelled back good-naturedly, getting up anyway and coming to join Leslie at the table. "He told you that?"

"Sure did," Leslie said cheerfully, handing Camille a couple of bills. "They're only fifteen dollars. Surely you can afford that."

"Geez, it's not the price I'm worried about," Myeko bantered. "Look at it. That thing's the size of a UFO. It'd swallow him whole, without so much as a burp."

"Are you going to deny this kid the chance to own a piece of genuine collector's memorabilia?" Leslie asked. "Hey, political souvenirs can be collector's items. By the time he's old enough to wear it as a shirt instead of a ballroom gown, it'll probably be worth money." At that the other girls, including Camille, laughed.

"It's worth money now," retorted Myeko, "but only to her." She gestured at Camille, who smirked, and they laughed again while Myeko found the money and bought a shirt. By this time their teasing had drawn a small crowd; and once Myeko had her shirt, she turned to them and cheerfully urged them to get their own shirts while the supply lasted. In a few minutes Camille was doing a brisk business, and the girls were back to chatting.

Roarke, Harding, Jimmy and Toki eventually came over to see what was happening, and Roarke watched in amused surprise while the other men got talked into buying shirts. "How about you, Mr. Roarke?" Myeko inquired with a grin. "At this rate you'll be the only person on the whole island who doesn't own one of these. Even Leslie bought one."

Roarke's eyebrows lifted and he caught his daughter's gaze. "Supporting the opposition, are we, Leslie Susan?" he inquired mildly.

She slanted a glance in Myeko's direction and said mischievously, "Alexander made me do it." Myeko awarded her a dirty look but joined in the ensuing laughter.


	7. Chapter 7

§ § § -- September 7, 1992

The results of the election didn't come out till late Monday morning, and predictably, Roarke won by a healthy margin with all but 28 votes. Leslie's morning following the departure of their guests was free, and she was sitting with her friends on the veranda railing in front of the door to the study. Camille had that day's paper. "Twenty-eight votes?" she burst out, stunned.

"Got that many, did you?" Lauren jibed.

"Thanks," Camille snorted.

Leslie grinned. "Hey, you should be glad you got those. That's twenty-seven more votes than Tattoo got when he ran against Father that time. And the one he did get, well…" The memory overcame her and she started to laugh.

"You know, you never told us what Tattoo's reaction was when he found out he lost," Maureen remarked. "What happened?"

"Oh, that's right, I never did," Leslie realized, snickering. "Well, you see, we were seeing the guests off that Monday morning…"

±±±±±±±±±

Waving at Terri Summers and her father as the latter pushed the former swimmer up the docking ramp in her wheelchair, Roarke remembered something and turned to Tattoo. "Oh…by the way, Tattoo, what do you think of the election results?"

"Who won?" asked Tattoo with quickening interest.

Roarke cleared his throat a little. "Well, with all due modesty, I was re-elected, again, to another term as island lord mayor…almost unanimously." Both Leslie and Tattoo caught the _almost_, and gave each other surprised looks before Tattoo turned to Roarke.

"How many votes did I get?" he asked eagerly.

Roarke hesitated. "Well, all the precincts haven't been heard from yet," he said, trying to duck the question.

"Well, how many votes do I have so far?" Tattoo persisted.

Roarke gave a _very-well-you-asked-for-it_ shrug and said point-blank, "None." Leslie blinked, then smirked.

"None?" Tattoo cried, outraged. "That's impossible! I must have at least one—I voted for myself!"

Roarke glanced at Leslie, then back to Tattoo and amended, "Well, there was one ballot which had to be voided…"

"Oh, really?" Tattoo demanded, folding his arms over his chest and waiting with an expectant scowl, trying diligently to ignore Leslie's ever-growing grin.

"It seems," Roarke said with a nod, "that your campaign manager, Chester the Chimp, ate half of it." At which Leslie promptly exploded with laughter.

Tattoo moaned and growled, "That stupid monkey!" At wits' end, he slapped a hand to his forehead, then jerked back to awareness and glared at Leslie. "And you! You just stop that, Leslie Hamilton, right this minute, you understand me?"

Giggling madly, she said, "I told you not to hire Chester, but you didn't listen to me, so that's just what you get." She collapsed against Roarke, who himself was valiantly fighting to stifle his amusement.

Tattoo glared around at the native girls and the band members, who were all gazing innocently at one another or into the sky, and finally yelled, "Well, someone's gonna pay for this!" So saying, he stomped away to the waiting car.

"I think I see steam coming out of his ears," Roarke commented, which brought on snickers from the assembled natives and a shriek of merriment from Leslie. "Poor Tattoo." But he was grinning in spite of himself.

±±±±±±±±±

"So there, it could've been worse," Maureen said to Camille amidst the girls' mirth.

"Yeah, that's for sure," Myeko remarked, convulsed. "At least you didn't have a chimp running your campaign." Fresh laughter burst from them all.

"I guess that explains why there was never any post-election interview from Tattoo," Lauren remarked, wiping a couple of tears aside and trying to catch her breath. "My parents always wondered what had happened, but they weren't surprised that Mr. Roarke got all the votes on the island. Now I see why he wouldn't let the paper talk to him."

Leslie nodded. "It was three months before he even allowed either Father or me to mention the whole subject. So actually, Camille, you could have done quite a lot worse than you did. And you managed to sell every one of those T-shirts."

At this point Roarke came out the door and smiled apologetically. "Hello, ladies. I'm terribly sorry to break up your chat, but unfortunately, Leslie has some work to be done." He caught his daughter's curious look. "It has to do with that fantasy we discussed the other day."

"Oh, I see," Leslie said with understanding. "Okay. Well, folks, sorry I have to run, but you know how it is around here. Work, work, work."

Camille cleared her throat and slid off the railing where she'd been perched. "Uh…Mr. Roarke?" Roarke turned curiously back to her, and she smiled sheepishly. "I just wanted to tell you, congratulations on winning again. And I apologize for everything."

Roarke smiled warmly. "You made it a worthwhile contest, Camille, and there is no need for apologies. It's good to see that you and Leslie have patched things up." They shook hands; then Roarke made his way into the house. Leslie, following along, paused by the door.

"Just one thing," she said, puzzled. "Were you really serious about those bicycle license plates?" Camille rolled her eyes and they all laughed again.

* * *

_This story was built around a sketch that appeared in the episode "The Hit Man / The Swimmer", original airdate September 7, 1979. The first, second and fourth flashback scenes in this story comprised the sketch in question (the second flashback was cut from the syndicated version of the episode); the third flashback is my own creation. I also made reference in the third and fourth flashbacks to the two main fantasizers in this episode: Fred Forbush was played by David Doyle, and Terri Summers was portrayed by Eve Plumb. Thanks and apologies go to the "Fantasy Island" staff writers who first dreamed up this sketch all those years ago._


End file.
